


with the lights out, it's less dangerous

by thimblesforneverlanders



Category: Daybreakers (2009)
Genre: F/M, Isolation, Language, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Sex, Sensual Play, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3884773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimblesforneverlanders/pseuds/thimblesforneverlanders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anita, a human that Edward has been harboring in his house for years, struggles with the isolation of living as a fugitive in a world full of vampires. With the threat of being reduced to nothing but a Blood Donor looming just outside the walls of Edward's house, she must decide whether it is time to end it all or find a way to deal with the desolation.</p><p>But is the dangerous game she finds herself playing with Frankie Dalton, Edward's human-hunting brother, the best solution to her loneliness?</p><p>Set pre-Daybreakers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> Please read this first! There's something I'd like to explain before you read this: the Blood Donor thing. I gave this a lot of thought and came to the conclusion that just because we only see how the humans are hunted and farmed for their blood in the movie doesn't mean it was always like that - like the moment everyone started Turning I couldn't imagine it had gone straight to catching humans and putting them in the Blood Farms. I figured that it must have been gradual: at first it was just like giving blood nowadays; you donate blood and you get payment, maybe they upped the price or something to entice humans to give more. And then it became a sort of tax thing; humans having to give blood every so often as required by the government. But then it became a mandatory thing for all remaining humans to go in every day or every other day and donate blood; i.e. Blood Donors. That's where Anita and her group of humans come in; the people who refused to become Blood Donors would be considered criminals and would obviously be punished. Eventually the mandatory Blood Donors would become the first people to be put in the Blood Farms. Okay, read on.

"God _damn_ it, Frankie, I have until sundown to get some sleep before a shit load of work tomorrow – I'm not having this conversation again; it's _done_!"

A beat of silence follows the words as the dismissal rings heavy in the air and a resounding snarl tears through the tension. Anita grimaces at the sound of footsteps up the stairs and tries to press herself back against the hinged door, into nonexistence – a thin hand clawing at the threshold as she waits with bated breath.

No matter how many arguments she heedfully witnesses, how many times Edward tells her that she is safe after Frankie blows in and out of their lives over and over again, how many times she manages to make it just _one more_ day without being caught and forced as a Blood Donor: the dread that makes her stomach clench in an almost paralyzing sort of fear is a constant reminder that she is never safe.

The comfort of safety is not a luxury she can afford – not anymore.

The years spent hiding with a decreasing amount of fellow human who had refused vampirism had not been wasted with pointless dreams of a secure future. Those days were harsh, dirty, and cruel – but in each other there was at least a small repose of normalcy. Humans living _(_ well, _surviving_ , because what they had been doing was not actually living _)_ with other humans.

A human living with one (sometimes two, she remembers with a tingle up her spine) vampires, though.

She wants to laugh at the thought of such an illusion as safety for someone in her position, but seeing as it's the one thing standing between her and becoming a daily juice box, she refrains. That is if she could remember how to laugh; the muscles surrounding her mouth are usually only ever exercised into a frown and she imagines that the act of straining them upwards might be foreign and difficult.

Her attempt at becoming a chameleon is at once deemed futile under the fierce gaze of Frankie Dalton as he passes in the hall. He's only just gotten back from his most recent tour of duty and as per usual he is staying at Edward's during his break, unable to afford an apartment he would scarcely ever use.

The first few days of his return are always the worst; Edward almost never remembers the day of Frankie's arrival and the latter's mood turns sour the moment he comes home to see his welcome party consists of one: a somewhat interested (and punctual; she doesn't have much to look forward to these days and even his return on the calendar is _something_ ) Anita holding a propped open book in one hand and the world's tiniest banner reading _Welcome home, asshole!_ in her other as she lounges comfortably on a sofa in the office room, ready to leap to her crawl space at a moment's notice.

Just as she thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ this time he will continue to his seldom-occupied bedroom and ignore her, he stops walking and looks her down as if she is a lower species; a turkey attending the Thanksgiving dinner. There is distaste clear in his eyes, rage too, and something even darker that she recognizes somewhere in the back of her mind but does not want to dwell upon.

Anita glowers bitterly up at him, willing him to feel her disgust at him, too, for him to know that this isn't exactly the ideal living situation for her either. A small part of her feels ashamed for those sort of thoughts – the last thing she wants Edward to think she is is _ungrateful._ She owes him her life, however useless it may be now.

Once, a couple years back, when on a supply raid with her group she had been wounded by a lone poor, starving vampire who had found them and attacked. Her party had left her there, assuming her to be dead, so it was not abandonment – not really, she would have done the same.

Self-hatred burns her insides with the knowledge that this new world – one with the rule of vampires and the hunt of humans like livestock – has charred her soul black to the core, a sense of meaningless survival (what is the _point_ to her life?) taking control on instinct so that she has to fight every day to remember what humanity truly means.

But with an abundance of luck and patience on Edward's part, he had found her bleeding out (thankfully not infected; she'd rather _die_ ) and managed to get them both back to his place to nurse her back to health. Her constant attempts at his life or escaping had slowed things down considerably, but she eventually healed and came to the hard realization that her pack was gone. She knew by then they would be cities away and that she was alone. It was with little hesitance that Anita had accepted Edward's offer of shelter and food. Protection, too, but that was taken lightly.

She's never been one to depend on others; she likes to pull her own weight, and her current title of hidden house guest makes her restless. When she had first began living with Edward, she had offered him her blood – not straight from her veins, obviously, but with the proper equipment she would have given him enough, regularly but not nearly as much as she'd have to if she became a Blood Donor, to cushion the blow of his blood-bill. But he had refused; said he didn't drink human, and it would have been a lie to say she was too disappointed. The same offer was never given to Frankie – probably because she knows now, and knew then, that _he_ would not have refused.

"Well, if it isn't _the_ _root_ of the problem." Frankie grinds out, his jaw clenched as he takes a step towards her. "Tell me – do you think Ed sees your face on the humans at his company or just dollar signs?"

She blinks indifferently, keeping her silence. They've danced to this song before, and honestly, she's grown too phlegmatic to be baited so easily.

"Probably not the money." He adds, his voice hard. "He pities you humans too much for his own good. And _you_ in particular, doesn't he?" He chuckles darkly and points at her with his index finger. "No, you're his favorite little stray kitten – here to stay."

At his sneering words she looks back at the small opening across the small office that leads to the crawl space she spends her time in when the sun falls and darkness resumes – a pathetic excuse for living quarters but she is none the wiser, having been in worse conditions while on the streets. At least she has the sleeping bag to herself now.

She is allowed out during the day or when Edward is home and does not have company, but rarely downstairs and always, _always_ she must be quiet _(_ so quiet it is like she is not even _there)_ in case the neighbors can hear. He cooks her food mostly (something she wishes she could do for herself; Edward is an _appallingly_ bad chef) and she is permitted to have a shower every few days even though she has to use his toiletries. She does not mind much, though – things like that have not been a problem for her in a good long while.

It is not that Edward wants to keep her on a short leash so much as he is very meticulous in ensuring that she remains hidden, for his sake and hers. Every single thing is planned and routine; if he is to buy too much extra food or household necessities or if his guest notice that he seems to be housing three occupants, it might raise unwanted suspicion that would be better to avoid entirely. Paranoid, maybe, but it _works_. And although she will never dare to complain, living in such circumstances is taking the wear and tear out of her.

While food comes easier now than what she has been used to (having been malnourished since she was barely a teen) she is still unhealthy; her skin too pale from the lack of sunlight and the natural growth of her body stinted by the crawl space, making her appear pinched, and so much smaller than she should, too emaciated and frail to the point where she wants to avoid mirrors at all cost on some days. The perpetual dark rims under her grey eyes from many sleepless nights give her the appearance of a ghost, and her hair is almost always in a wild tangle of mousy blonde strands, but sometimes on her more _vain_ days, she manages to run her fingers through it enough to tame the mess. Throughout every thing that has been lost to the war of vampires against humans, vanity seems to trail behind her in a race to catch up; not quite there but never too far behind either.

She looks _hollow_ , dead in the eyes, and it's only fitting, really – she feels the same way.

Anita wishes that she could take pride in her quiet strength – she yearns to think of herself as one of the heroines from the books she reads to assuage her boredom (Edward has books _everywhere_ , scattered in piles in all the nooks and crannies of the house and then some), biding her time before she can join the Revolution with her fellow humans, but honestly, the fear and _cowardice_ that is still present, hidden beneath the bitter sorrow and ferocious contempt, only makes her feel weak. Weak from the tears that wet her pillow at night when she is by herself in the crawl space, holding her arms around her middle as if it will help the sickness, left with nothing but thoughts of death and blood and the unfairness of life.

She misses her family more than she ever thought she would, and it's unbearable because it leaves a gaping, festering hole in her chest that makes her want to lie still until she just stops breathing. At those times, more than usual, it stumps her how anybody could want to live forever. It's a consuming, mindless sort of grief that leaves her breathless and exhausted, hating herself for dwelling on the past when her current standing in the food chain demands all the focus she has.

Anita _hates_ weakness.

And Frankie makes her feel weak.

Especially when he is this close to her, his head tilted down so he can meet her wide eyes, and his body so near her that she can feel the coolness of him. She hates the terror it instills in her at the thought that he can infect her with a smile on his face and her flesh in his teeth if he so desires. And he does desire it – he's told her so, after the two brother's verbal throw down matches over Edward's aiding and abetting a human criminal in his own house, a house that Frankie inhabits ( _"By knowing and not saying anything it makes me an accomplice, Ed!"_ ). Edward thinks his threats of turning them in are empty ( _"He won't say anything . . . he_ owes _me."_ Ed told her once when she had voiced her concerns) and he hasn't yet, however, Anita wouldn't put it past him. She can't turn a corner in a house that Frankie's in without having a threat to _turn_ her thrown in her face.

Even more than that, though, she absolutely despises the _other feelings_ he sparks in her too. The ones that make her flush with heat in her veins and an ache between her thighs from the longing to be close to someone again. Anita despises him for being a selfish monster and she despises him even more when he's not. She despises the salacious want he infixes in her when he glances up with sharp, trained eyes from whatever he is doing to watch her walk back to the office after a shower when she is in only a towel. But more than anything, anything else she despises _herself_ for having allowed him to toy with those feelings periodically over the last four months.

As Frankie stares at her, something akin to understanding glints in his eyes and he takes a quick step in her direction, making her fall back two. After a moment she has enough sense to worry he might have recognized the look in her eyes as more than offense at his words. There is a familiar sort of triumph in his voice as he sneers, "Something bothering you, _pet?_ "

The sound of the taunting sobriquet he had long ago christened her coming from his lips is far too palatable for her to handle so she imagines what the screams of the humans he has hunted and forced into the Blood Revenue Agents hands would sound like instead, so loud and terrible that it can banish those bad, bad feelings that surround her off to another place where things that are _wrong_ go to.

For the moment, it works.

"Yes – you are standing too close," Anita finally murmurs, and something frightening in her roars at the covetous flash in his eyes as they narrow at her, but she silences it by biting her tongue, unable to resist the opportunity to wipe the smirk off of his face. "And I can still smell the blood of my people marring your precious honor, _sir._ "

The corners of his mouth twist down at her mockery and he raises his chin, trying to intimidate her with his authority, but the vampire soldier card no longer makes her shrink in fear as it once did. She has had quite a bit of time in the weeks of Frankie's absence to prepare herself for his overwhelming presence that has always had a different effect on her than Edward's. She will no longer permit herself to be a distraction for him to amuse himself with whenever he likes purely because he _can_. She is more than his filthy little secret, and certainly better than him.

Her lips thin and she brings herself to full height, which is only a wee few inches shorter than him, but still her neck cranes up slightly to meet his gaze. She has pushed off from the door and he moves backwards to avoid physical contact. The fact that he is the one who falls back weighs heavy on him and his frown deepens in anger.

His relentless harassment over the years has been all too entertaining for him because of the easy prey she has always presented him with. His ability to read her like an open book is almost congenital – Frankie knows Anita to her very core; her thoughts, her fears, her dreams, he knows exactly what to do to provoke her. He can send her into a furious rage with a few casual words or tear her apart by a single deliberate look. But now the game has changed. She has surprised him with this sign of defiance; this charge of offensive play, and he does not know how to react to it.

A small thrill shoots through her from his falter, and the courage it gives her comes out in the smooth words she spits into his face, " _Something bothering you,_ Frankie?"

She can almost taste victory in her mouth when his ochroid eyes flash and he quickly leans into her, a smirk curling onto his face, making her stumble back away from him and warily glance at the protruding fangs that press into his pale lower lip. He smiles widely to show her his teeth more clearly; a wolf's grin, and watches her clenched jaw tremble beneath the unspoken threat, eyes dancing and alight with the prospect of a challenge.

"Careful now, pet, wouldn't want to cross lines you can't come back from, would you?" He cautions.

The air feels weighted with the tension, as if electricity is crackling against her skin, sending sparks through her nervous system but she holds her ground and straightens. The warning is obvious in his voice; he wants her to know that he is in control. She _hates_ that.

He is so close she can feel his breath fanning her face, and although it makes hers come in faster than she would care to admit, Anita resists the urge to swivel her head to the side. "Fuck your lines."

The curse word feels strange on her tongue, although she is pleasantly surprised at the evenness of her tone, and she enjoys his confounded look at her having taken a page from his book – he frequently uses the crude terms, and at least one adolescent innocent tendency has always made her wince when he casually refers to them – but it had sounded sharp and primitive and she is impressed by herself. She instantly realizes that she likes how fierce it makes her feel.

" _Ooh_ , such language, Nita. Wouldn't expect it from you." He grins at her, his tongue grazing briefly over one fang, so quickly that she barely notices it with a sweeping sensation sent straight to her toes, and continues, "And while I _appreciate_ that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, maybe you should mind your manners for now. After all, pets who misbehave must be . . . castigated."

Her knees quake, nearly giving out at his tone: almost a teasing threat, and that realization makes her stomach flutter in equal parts fright and _excitement_. She inhales deeply, pulling down the frayed sleeves of her sweater past her fingers.

Frankie's smile fades as his mouth contorts into a thoughtful expression and his eyes size her up. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but she is not sure if it is because of the dread in her stomach or the heat that flames in her cheeks and along her ears when he steps forward with his arms extended out on either side of her head, efficiently trapping her between the door and his body. He pushes a strand of hair from her darting eyes with a gentle motion; a mocked sign of affection, and lets the tip of his finger rest on her temple.

He is pushing her, stretching their interaction like a rubber band, testing to see how far he can go before she breaks. He doesn't have to push far this time – a simple movement; he bites gently and deliberately into his lower lip and his eyes drop to her mouth – and then she is shoving his arms away scathingly, hitting him with her fist as she turns to her crawl space.

Frankie catches her readily around her waist and flings her back against a wall, grabbing her wrists in his hands when she tries to struggle and pinning them above her head. His face is close enough to hers that she can clearly see the smile lines in his right cheek when the corner of his lip quirks up in that crooked grin that makes her loathe these moments with him as much as she secretly looks forward to them, although, she will never admit the hold he has on her; a strong fist around her rotting heart, forcing it to pulsate when the beats begin to degenerate.

Sometimes she wishes he would just let her die.

He thrusts a knee between her legs, pressing his body onto hers, and she can't _breathe_ – she can't even muster the energy to ignore the way her body responds to the familiar feeling of him against her; the way her hips cant upwards into him, all but unwillingly.

And sometimes she wants nothing more than this.

" _Fuck you._ " Anita seethes, because he looks so _smug_ , like such a smug bastard that her blood practically boils and she feels _alive_.

"Hm, fuck _me_?" Frankie muses. "You're being rather straightforward today."

"Well, you know what they say." She returns with a sharp grin on her face that she saves _just_ for him. "Bold is beautif – _oh!_ "

He had ducked down into her neck, his mouth opened wide, and for only a moment she considers that he is finally making good on his threat to tear into her jugular vein, but it's not his teeth. It's his tongue, and she thinks that might be worse. He's kissing the base of her throat, ravaging the skin there (because Anita will shit a brick if she ever sees Frankie being tentative in his actions), and it almost _hurts_ ; she knows there will be a bruise there in a few hours.

There always is.

"Wait." She protests wearily, her heart beating a tattoo of his name onto her ribcage. "You said it was the _last time_. We agreed – we agreed the last time was it."

"I changed my mind." He says easily, his mouth trailing up to her jaw. " _God_ , you're so fucking _warm_."

And the low, guttural sound of his voice makes her knees actually give out this time. He only tightens his fingers around her wrists, though, and his thigh between her legs keeps her upright, but _oh_ – his thigh between her legs. She trembles.

Her eyes fall closed with a pleased, drawn out sigh and he lets out a breathy laugh.

"You want this just as much as I do, don't you, pet?" He taunts, scraping his fangs lightly over her skin.

Anita growls but before she can retort he presses his lips to hers and kisses her in a way that only he's ever done; hard, deep, _angry_. He releases her right hand and she presses her palm to the nape of his neck, holding him in place as she responds to his jabbing remark by nipping at his bottom lip. She makes a noise at the back of her throat when his tongue invades her mouth.

He's cold – all vampires are. But Anita doesn't see it like they do in the old YA novels about the then-mythical vampire, it is not just some side effect of being a dashing creature of the night like the young heroines think it is; it's one of the things she hates the most when she's with Frankie like this, because it reminds her that he is _dead_. He has no pulse, no heartbeat. Frankie is cold like a corpse, a walking disease.

This thought gives her resolve a burst of renewed strength and she tugs her other hand free from his grasp, holding tightly to his shirt as she pants, "We can't keep doing this." But even as the words leave her, she allows her hand to drift down towards his stomach, feeling the taut muscles of his abdomen beneath her exploring fingers.

 _Jesus, help me,_ Anita thinks desperately, _he's my Kryptonite._

He's undeterred – his mouth hovering over hers, golden eyes watching her intently as his hands go to her hips and he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her pants. "Why not?" He asks, softly, the words drifting over her lips.

She pauses, distracted by the way his fingers stroke circles onto her skin.

He smiles at her hesitancy, touching his lips lightly to hers.

The tenderness throws her into momentary surprise, but he suddenly grips the back of her thighs and lifts her up, propping her against the wall as her legs lock instinctively around his waist, and there's nothing tender about what's digging into the inside of her thigh. She gasps when his hands slide up her sweater, one at the small of her back and the other on her breast.

She kisses him fervidly, nearly slicing open her tongue on his fang, and cradles his jaw in her hands – he grins into her mouth, apparently satisfied by her response, and her body screams _this is the last time,_ _just once more_.

"I'm not into necrophilia – you _son of a bitch_ ," Anita murmurs, short of breath, but even she hears the fond way the words are spoken.

"Shut up," Frankie groans as his mouth goes to her collarbone, his hand tugging one of her legs higher over his hip while his groin steadily rocks into the apex of her thighs as if to prove his next words, "D'you think I want to _want_ this? I've taken playing with my food to an all new level."

And she doesn't even try to stop the morbid laugh that leaves her as he carries her to his bedroom.

It's the last time, after all.


	2. Honesty Hour

After sex they sit in the pitch darkness and talk to each other. It's like some form of bizarre honesty hour; an odd, unspoken agreement made long ago when they first started this – _whatever_ this is. The rules are pretty simple: no question is off-limits and they must tell the candid truth. Every thing else is mercurial.

"Well that's...hm...fresh air, I guess."

" _Bull_ shit. Don't be a smartass."

"I'm _not_. You asked what I miss most often." Anita says, lying horizontally on his bed with her head resting on his bare stomach and her feet dangling off the side. She stares blankly into the black nothingness above her. "The breeze against my skin, inhaling the fresh scent of being outdoors, the sun's warmth soaking though me. It's actually pretty ironic."

"What is?" Frankie asks, sounding only mildly interested as he takes the last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out on the ashtray beside him.

"The fact that I really hated sunny days." She smirks. "I liked rainy, gray ones and being out at nighttime when it was dark and cold and quiet." She goes on, her voice wistful with an undercurrent of bitterness. "You'd think I'd be the perfect candidate for vampirism, huh?"

"Then why – "

She cuts him off, sensing what he is going to ask. "I don't want to walk around without a heartbeat. It's just not right."

He makes a hissing noise under his breath, exasperated. "That's – that's _nothing_. It's a trivial repercussion of immortality – a small price to pay for endless opportunities _and_ forever to discover them." His fingers thread through the blonde hair splayed across his chest, his hand at the crown of her head, and it almost feels affectionate when he drags blunt nails along her scalp. "A heartbeat doesn't matter – I mean, look at me. I'm walking and talking and living, right?"

"That remains to be seen." Anita quips, a breathy laugh leaving her when he tugs on her hair.

He continues as if he hadn't heard her. "Having a beating heart doesn't mean shit."

"Means shit to me."

"Why?" He demands. "I know you don't have this strong of conviction for something without a legitimate reason backing it up, so why the obstinacy?"

She sighs, remembering their rules, before beginning.

"When I was around nine, I think – or maybe it was ten, doesn't matter – my uncle Danny died. It was an open casket at the wake and I remember everything so clearly, from the overwhelming smell of flowers in that God awful place to the scratchy material of my dress on my skin. And I remember staring down at his face and waiting for him to move or for his eyes to open but they didn't, obviously." She clears the fresh remnants of grief from her throat before continuing, "And so I placed my hand over his heart and waited: he was hard and cold and – and _still_ , and I just wanted to feel the _bump-bump_ of his heart on my fingers, y'know? But he was dead."

She shifts and adjusts herself so that she's comfortably lying on her stomach, partially on top of him with her elbow digging into his ribs and her head propped in her hand. "When people don't have a heartbeat it means they're dead, okay Frankie? They're _gone_. You're dead, Edward's dead, and everyone _infected_ ," she spits the correct term for what he is at him, "is dead. As far as I'm concerned you're all just corpses with nerves."

The lean muscles in his abdomen tense beneath her and it's silent for a moment, but then he speaks, his tone amused, "Well don't sugar coat it, pet. Tell me how you really feel." Still, she hears the forced way he ejects the words into the air, and she considers the possibility that she hurt his feelings.

_Right._ The day she hurts Frankie's feelings is the day he has any to begin with.

"I'm not sorry." Anita admits, bluntly. "You made your choice. And Edward, too."

"What?" He cuts in sharply. "The fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you both chose this – to be what you are." She elaborates, reaching for his left hand and blindly tracing his fingers to cure her restlessness (if she doesn't, she might reach for something else and _that_ will get her on a track that won't lead to more questions for at least another hour). "He obviously regrets his decision, though. I can't imagine having a regret like that... so _final_. He never talks about his Turning, actually, what exactly – "

"Anita don't." Frankie interrupts.

" _Wha_ – " She trails off as a confused noise leaves her throat.

"Just drop it and leave it the hell alone."

"But I thought – "

"Do not ask me that. Just don't. _Please_."

Her movements still and she holds her breath – how can a single word feel like a brick being thrown into her gut? She's never heard so much desperation and pleading packed into six letters, ever, and certainly not by _Frankie_ ; the poster child for arrogance and dignity.

If she asks, he _has_ to answer; those are the rules.

"Alrighty then." She pauses and silence resumes as she ponders her question. There's a thick fog of awkwardness hanging in the air like the remnants of his last cigarette, and she swims through it for a coherent thought, managing to string a sentence together, "Tell me a secret."

"Firstly, that's not a question," He objects, his voice strong and haughty again. "And secondly – "

"Secondly, I've given you one favor and you're not getting another." She cuts in, feeling confident from his previous show of vulnerability. "So either you tell me a secret or you tell me what I asked before. Your choice."

Suddenly she feels cold hands splayed across her ribcage as he pulls her fully up onto him and then rolls over so that he's hovering in every inch of her space. A surprised trill escapes her and her arms get caught between their chests, her palms flattened against his stomach. His eyes are two golden orbs glowing in the dark above her, and Anita doesn't remember when she stopped finding the image frightening, doesn't _want_ to know when she started finding it a familiar, comforting sight.

" _You_ are very demanding today, maybe we need to fix that." He teases, lips trailing her jawline. "A little begging might do the trick, you think?"

She manages to get one hand free to flick his ear. "You're the one who'll be begging if you don't play our game fairly, Dalton. No secret, no nookie."

"You think you can use sex against me?" He blurts incredulously.

"I think I definitely can." She replies, matter-of-factly and with no small amount of smugness. "Because, sure, you could go get laid somewhere else. But it's daytime and I'm willing to bet that all your booty calls are tucked soundly into their little coffins, and even _you_ are not worth a sleepy roll in the hay at this hour."

"You're my only booty call, pet." He smirks, and the slight smile on her face spreads. It's as if he can see her in the dark, because he quickly backtracks. "Wait – _no_. That wasn't meant to sound so endearing."

"Oh, no?" She chuckles. "Thanks anyway."

"The intent was very much an insult, all right? I insulted you, so don't look so pleased with yourself."

"How do you know how I look?"

"Because I can fucking _hear_ your self-satisfied thoughts. Knock it off."

His mock serious tone contrast greatly with the way his fingers lazily stroke a path from the side of her breast all the way down to her hip, and she begins pressing open mouthed kisses along his neck.

"Don't knock _that_ off." He adds, his voice quiet and throaty. "I guess that – that's all right to continue."

There's a few things that Anita has learned through trial and error from these moments with Frankie. One, for example, is that his breath will hitch – without fail – every single time she drags her teeth from just below his ear, straight down, to the two small puckered scars that mark his throat like freckles. She repeats the action, earning the stuttered breath and following sigh from deep within his chest.

Maybe it's a vampire kink – to have the spot where he was bitten be the central focus of her teeth and tongue – or maybe his sensitive spot has always been there, but it doesn't really matter why. She's long given up on the _why_ of what she does. The only thing that matters now is that _that_ sound sends a jolted rush of heat from her stomach straight to between her thighs, and moments like these are the only times that she feels free again.

A bad decision it may be but it's _her_ decision, and that makes all the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This does not take place directly after the first chapter, just so you know. That's why there's more familiarity and comfort and acceptence from Anita in this one. I've had the majority of this finished for awhile and I wanted to post something so I tied a bow on it and here you go. It's short, I know. But I have had a bit of inpiration for Frankie and Anita so we'll see how it goes from here. Thanksgiving break is coming up and I'll have some free time. I'd really like to continue developing their relationship, so we'll see! Hope you enjoyed it and thanks for reading!  
> P.S. I'm forever updating the writing I've already posted so there's a couple of things I want to change and clear up in the first chapter of this.

**Author's Note:**

> So if you've read the original (which was posted on FF.net) you will hopefully have noticed two things: one being that this is very, very different than the original and two being that this is also much better than the original. My writing style has changed greatly since I wrote the first piece, so I hope you still liked it.
> 
> And to all those who are just now reading it: don't worry. In my opinion, you're not missing out on anything from the original. It was horrible. I definitely like the characterization of Frankie and Anita better in this, and I think her living situation in the world of Daybreakers is more realistic too.
> 
> Lastly, I'm not going to mark this as complete because I might write more for Frankie and Anita. I'm thinking there's a chance that I'll occasionally post a drabble of their relationship if I'm feeling inspired, and I kind of wanted to show a bit of Edward and Anita's relationship as well. I don't know if anyone's interested in that or not, so let me know.


End file.
